


tidy room, tidy mind

by pensivecowboyemoji



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: (revised the tags because they sucked), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Character Study, Gen, Other, Trans Mag (The Penumbra Podcast), Trans Peter Nureyev, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27134488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensivecowboyemoji/pseuds/pensivecowboyemoji
Summary: Peter knew about ghosts, had seen them in the ancient frozen monuments on Pluto, had seen pictures of the abandoned houses on Venus, like if you squinted hard enough you’d be able to see the eyes peering from the darkness of the bombed-out structures. He’d seen them hanging over shoulders, had seen it in Juno's eyes the first time they’d met.And, as it turns out, he had not quite purged this one from himself.And who could blame him! After all, just he’d gone and named himself the last thing Mag knew him as! If anything he should be grateful it isn’t something worse!Peter shakes his head. He stretches a smile over his face. Tidy room, tidy mind. Perhaps he’d feel better if he just cleaned up a little.
Relationships: Buddy Aurinko & Vespa Ilkay & Peter Nureyev & Rita & Jet Sikuliaq & Juno Steel, Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	tidy room, tidy mind

**Author's Note:**

> cws for negative thinking, panic attack (kinda), he has a couple of flashbacks. tbh im not too sure what they count as. mild paranoia and some chunky trust issues. enjoy.

A year. It had been a year since they started. It had been a good four months since they’d bought a replacement vessel. (It was only on Rita and Juno’s insistence that they added a _2_ after the original name, Buddy laughing and pushing Vespa towards the hull as they stood in the mechanic’s bay.) 

And Peter had quickly built his collection of costumes up, as most had been burnt up when they had been infiltrated. Those that hadn't were used for a variety of other things in the weeks before they were spotted by a rich throuple on holiday, looking for a short escape from their glamorous lives. 

Which is, to say, he now had more clothes than when they’d burnt up in the atmosphere of Exus-5.

The _vast_ majority of which were littered about his floor.

In all honesty, he’s not too sure _how_ it got this bad. He’d just never tidied, trying on outfit upon outfit in the morning, discarding the ones that felt wrong by tossing them aside and vowing to pick them up later. It's just- nothing... felt quite right, none of the clothes felt like they fit properly. They itched and burned like the melted wax below the candle flames he used to stick his finger into as a child. It just didn’t make any sense. He was living _in_ Ransom, had the cadence and body language down _pat,_ barely breaking character even when he was alone with Juno.

It was a discomfort that wormed its way through his skin, through fat and sinew and muscle to his very bones. His mind draws a parallel to when he was a teenager and first hit puberty. Healthcare on Brahma was only available to those who had money, the rest suffered or sold themselves to whichever bastard conglomerate would take the least toll on their frail forms, and he had figured the suffering would at least allow him a little more freedom. He wore a binder in those years, picked from a dump, tattered and dirty. It was akin to when he’d been wearing it too long, when his ribs and spine would groan and spark in pain. Mag had snapped at him to take it off more often than not, throwing him his jacket when he would hunch his shoulders, discomfort settling on his skin in a different way.

Huh. There it was again.

_Mag._

Peter knew about ghosts, had seen them in the ancient frozen monuments on Pluto, had seen pictures of the abandoned houses on Venus, like if you squinted hard enough you’d be able to see the eyes peering from the darkness of the bombed-out structures. He’d seen them hanging over shoulders, had seen it in Juno's eyes the first time they’d met.

And, as it turns out, he had not quite purged this one from himself.

And who could blame him! After all, just he’d gone and named himself the last thing Mag knew him as! If anything he should be _grateful_ it isn’t something worse! 

Peter shakes his head. He stretches a smile over his face. Tidy room, tidy mind. Perhaps he’d feel better if he just cleaned up a little. 

It goes about as well as any would expect. The costumes reject their typical order, and Peter has half a mind to shove them out of the _goddamned_ airlock like they deserve. They sit on the floor still, slightly more crumpled, but in different places. His replacement Duke Rose shoe sits on his bed, which he only finds out when he goes to sit down and gets the point of the heel poking into his kidney. 

There’s an old earth metaphor: _the straw that broke the camel’s back._ He’s fairly sure it stems from an old arabic phrase. It describes a camel, already so burdened with the load it carries that something so light as a piece of straw _(S_ _traw is an agricultural byproduct_ _,_ the stolen comms chirped at him, tucked away in the corner of an alley, _c_ _onsisting of the dry stalks of cereal plants after the grain and chaff have been removed)_ can overwhelm it, ceasing movement until its load is lightened.

He feels like that camel for one second, and a hot flash of rage comes over him. How _dare_ Mag makes him feel this way! How _dare_ his stupid brain decide to open that file and parade it around the room for all to see! 

Then it fades, and he’s left just as hollow and empty as he was when he woke up that morning.

So he sleeps. The heel digging into his back, his bare feet resting against the cold metal of the ship’s flooring. His dreams are tumultuous, and his room gets messier.

#

“Baby, I don't see why we can't just use yours! Rita spilt a load of salmon puffs on my bed and now she's cleaning it up but the stream is starting like, _now,_ and you _know_ how loud she is when she’s cleaning! And!” his voice takes the defensive tone he hears all too often when his lady and Vespa start their bickering. “I wanna watch this thing! It looks interesting.”

They're standing outside Peter’s room, just after Juno’s scouting mission. Ransom had been with Buddy all day checking over the floorplans (and desperately, _desperately_ trying to repress the unbidden, unwanted, frankly _unneeded_ memories of preparing for his and Mag’s final mission together). 

He does, truly, want to unwind and relax and watch this cooking stream with his joyfriend! He truly does! 

Just. Not in his room. It can’t be his room, the place is still an absolute tip, and if _Juno_ goes in there, well. He’s clever. He’d figure him out in two seconds, see the knot of confusion and fear that writhes under the layer of clothes and shoes and accessories and delicate jewels strewn about the floor. 

And the desk.

And the vanity.

And piled atop the chair.

And on his bed.

An- well. That covers about every flat surface in the room. He hadn’t had the thought to install shelves on the wall quite yet, but it was seeming a more and more attractive prospect by the second.

“-som. Ransom!” Peter snaps back into the moment, and plasters a smile over his face. (He doesn’t think about how thin and fragile it feels). Juno frowns, opens his mouth to say something. Peter doesn’t give him the chance, grabbing his hand and leading him away, back to his room, quietly insistent. “I’m sure Rita also wants to watch the stream, dear! If we help her clean it up then we can all watch together!”

He pretends he doesn't see Juno's frown deepen, or feel his hand tighten for a second in a gesture of comfort. He doesn't _need_ the comfort or pity. He needs to watch this stupid stream with the one person who makes him feel like he isn’t crawling out of his own rotten skin.

#

His leg had never healed properly. Being shoved into a _backpack_ of all things, then crash landing on a goddamn half-deserted planet definitely didn’t help. He’s not surprised by it, Vespa may be an excellent doctor but the human body is a stubborn beast in its own regard. 

It is useful, however, for something. The pain always sharpens a few minutes before he has a panic attack (one was an incident, two’s a coincidence, three’s a pattern, and much harder to write off) and usually gives him enough time to find somewhere quiet before the cascade starts.

It's the typical paranoia/imposter syndrome combo. The knowledge that Rita _knows_ , so why wouldn’t she tell the others? She’s practically Buddy and Vespa’s adopted daughter, and Jet’s attached to her at the hip. They must _know_ he’s not good enough, he’s the least useful one out of all of them on the _fucking_ ship. He’s a thief, a shoddy one at that (scenes from their close shave at Zolotovna’s ball flit through his head like some sickening film of all his failures).

And Juno. God, Juno. He’d changed so much and it felt like Peter had stumbled onto this beautiful, glowing man who still- against all odds- still loved him, still _wanted_ him. And yet he _knows_ , knows deep inside of himself, that he isn't enough, never will be, not for someone so. So! There are no words to adequately describe the emotion he feels when he sees him, sees the scar across the bridge of his wide nose, the old acne scars on his cheeks, the small, faded scars where his right eye used to be, the newer ones, jagged and not yet faded where the Theia made its reluctant exit. 

Perhaps it’s an awful thing to wish _(of course it is you_ selfish _little boy)_ but he wishes he could have a Theia of his own. It's just _so hard_ to keep things sorted and organised when the black pit in the centre of his room calls to him late at night, and the clothes he's decided to sleep on rather than slide under the covers threaten to choke him. 

He can't ever express this, he knows that well enough. Juno would spit at him, Rita would probably shove him out the airlock, and god knows Jet and Vespa have been _waiting_ for him to fuck up badly enough to confirm their suspicions. Hell, even Buddy's been suspicious of him, quieting discussions when he walks into the room, tight lipped with her plans and their dates. 

He can't blame them. _Can't teach an old dog new tricks. C_ an't teach a thief to be honest. 

**Author's Note:**

> Personally i think juno being a joyfriend reflects how far he's healed. he very much viewed himself as something that only causes harm and to be referred to as something that explicity - as opposed to implicitly with other terms - can be affirmative and reassuring. u can disagree it doesnt really matter i just think affirmation through words in a very covert way is the biggest dopamine hit ever.


End file.
